‘Years ago, when he began at the Federation, I was fairly recently appointed to DG. I picked up a whisper about some shady business where he had been employed previously. In MCV, by the way. Jan Morell’s company.’

Selma sat absolutely still.

‘It’s a long time ago, so I don’t remember the details. At any rate, at the time I went to my editor and suggested I follow up the story. After all, Selhus was newly appointed as the Director of Finance in a sports organization. I thought it’d be interesting if …’

‘What happened?’

‘He turned me down. All I had was one source and when I wasn’t able to come up with anything more specific in the course of a couple of days, I was told to drop it. There was never any police involvement. There was never any story. What’s more, and I think this was decisive for my editor at the time, when the opportunity arose, Jan Morell spoke well of the guy in public. Old Antonsen was of the opinion that there couldn’t be anything behind it. The point is …’

He smiled, almost shyly.

‘The source was fucking solid. He was Selhus’s immediate sub-ordinate.’

‘And you knew him well?’

He didn’t blush, but went on to answer: ‘To put it this way, I wouldn’t have let the story lie today.’

A young woman holding a child on her hip and another by the hand tried to sit down at the table next to theirs. It wasn’t easy – the three-year-old refused to take off his jacket, and the baby was screaming like mad. Lars Winther pushed their table half a metre to the left. They both moved their chairs accordingly. None of this helped.

‘Have you …’

Selma hesitated. She moistened her lips and chose to continue: ‘Have you ever heard anything about a … close shave in the run up to the season in Italy?’

‘Eh?’

‘An ointment? That the national team doctor had bought?’

‘What are you talking about?’

Either he was the best actor in the world, or he certainly hadn’t got wind of Stian Bach’s gaffe.

‘Jan Morell,’ Selma said quickly.

‘Yes,’ he answered, sounding bewildered.

‘What do you know about him?’

‘About Jan Morell?’

‘Yes.’

Last night Selma had been convinced.

That Einar Falsen was right, that she had finally discovered an angle of attack on what had really happened in Hege’s doping case. The old down-and-out had seemed so convincing. So logical. It was Jan who was the intended target, not Hege. Selma had gone home to Løkka feeling relieved, in a state of near-euphoria.

Almost like after a successful night at the Poker Turk’s place.

Her enthusiasm had evaporated in her sleep. This morning it had all seemed far-fetched. Distant, as if the conversation beneath the Sinsen interchange around a gas flame had been nothing but a sweet dream about succeeding again at last.

All the same.

She had to ask.